


An Explanation

by Peasant



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 1990s, 1999, Gen, Spoilers: Fool for Love, Spoilers: In the Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-01
Updated: 2001-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasant/pseuds/Peasant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all about an explanation...</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Explanation

**Author's Note:**

> As usual I expect you to have been concentrating. If certain other people had then this wouldn’t be necessary. And, as far as I can check the relative changes, this does actually work.

Spike hunkered down in the narrow sewer pipe and tried to get more comfortable, despite the lack of headroom, attractive ‘slime motif’ walls, and what felt like an iron bar that insisted on sticking into his back no matter which position he tried to adopt. He was idly wondering what else was going to go wrong. He was cold; he was out of smokes; he was stuck in a filthy rat-hole for the day; the girl he’d eaten for supper had tasted disgusting; and now his beloved Desoto needed a new gearbox. Oh, and his sire still had the gem of Amara. No, not much else left _to_ go wrong really.

Unless Angelus actually turned up of course.

Spike tried not to think about what would happen when Angel did eventually catch up with him. He suspected that, soul or no soul, the conversation was not going to be about the weather. Unless the topic of sunshine was involved.

Not that he hadn’t had his reasons for what he’d just done, of course. He had some very good reasons when all was said and done. Yes, it had started off being about getting the gem back; but somewhere around the third poker a whole bunch of other stuff seemed to have snuck in of its own accord. About Dru, and a blonde slip of a Slayer, and too many miserable months in a wheelchair, and a two hundred year old, bleach blond, master vampire who wasn’t going to take any crap from anyone any more. And a sire with a soul having walked away one hot fiery night on the other side of the world whilst the blood of a darker Slayer had been still tingling un-praised in Spike’s veins.

Stuff.

Angel knew it, Spike knew it; hell, even Marcus had known some of it. So no need for words. Just needle nosed pliers and Mozart and another hot poker thrust in with a smell like barbecued meat.

He thought he’d probably made his point.

Spike drummed his fingers against the gritty concrete wall of the pipe and wondered how the car was getting on. He had managed to find a specialist mechanic who claimed to be able to do the work, but he knew he was taking potluck. No choice though, since he’d lost his temper with his usual man over the bad job done after his last visit to Sunnydale. Possibly a mistake. But then William the Bloody, merciless killer of the night, slayer of Slayers, most favoured childe of the Scourge of Europe did not accept bad service. So what if the wing had been badly damaged by that stupid sign the Sunnydorks always left sticking up in the wrong place? The car was a classic, only one elderly owner; it deserved craftsmanship, not a vague swing with a lump hammer and half a can of spray paint.

He examined the contents of his pockets. Forty-seven dollars, a zippo, a bent penny he’d had since nineteen thirty-seven, and the jewellery he’d taken off his last meal. He was hoping that the last would fetch enough to pay for the new gearbox, or at least to get the parts ordered. But if this fellow turned out to be any good then he was probably going to have to pay in full. Either that or find someone else the next time. And there always was a next time.

The shackles of bleeding capitalism.

And the necklace had a green stone in it. Just what he did not want to see right then. He shoved it back in his pocket.

Sodding poof.

Sodding, bloody, self-righteous, martyr complex ridden, over obsessive, opinionated, turncoat, do-gooding, poof of a sire.

And he’d paid Marcus half in advance. Three small children and a ticket to Florida for afterwards. Why had the four-eyed monster wanted to go to Florida anyway? Far too hot and full of wrinklies. Except for Disney World of course.

Oh.

Wanker. Hadn’t even done his job properly, seeing as the tattooed traitor had still been able to walk afterwards. Stupid idiot. Last time he hired anyone that was for certain. It was only Angelus who had ever given him the idea of having minions in the first place. Poncing around with a train of followers to kiss his shoes shiny for him. God had he really spent a hundred years trailing around at that mincing mick’s tail, like some puppy eyed brown-noser? William the bloody pathetic; that’s what he’d been. A hundred years with him and a hundred years without him and he knew which he’d achieved more in. He shouldn’t have just threatened to stake his old sire, he should have damn well gone ahead with it.

He wished he had a fag.

And now it was raining. Bleeding wonderful. So soon he’d have a thousand gallons or so of nice muddy water rushing down the pipe to add to his problems. Washing all the filth and litter off the shiny black streets that he couldn’t drive his car along, and sending it down to keep him company. While Angel was curled up toasty warm in that nice safe underground apartment of his, with his backing group of pals to sing his praises and nice lusty thoughts of all his evil deeds to brood over. And never a thought for his responsibilities to the code and the blood line and demons in general. No thought that other vampires might actually feel a bit let down that one of their best and darkest had gone to the good. No thought for his childe.

He wished he wasn’t Angelus’s childe.

It would be so much easier if he wasn’t related. If he was just any old demon having the legendary recusant Scourge of Europe tortured for the day. If every glimpse through that tattered shirt hadn’t reminded him of how that cool white flesh felt when it brushed against you in the night. And if those large blood rimmed fingertips weren’t the same ones he had kissed reverently one by one, every day for nearly a hundred long wonderful years. And if the great, strong, beautiful, pain wracked Angel dangling from those chains hadn’t screamed with agony in just the same voice as he had once heard Angelus scream for him in bliss. If he didn’t love him. And if it wasn’t _him_ who had been rejected. All for the sake of a soul he would have forgiven him for, if he’d just been given the chance. He so wished Angelus wasn’t his sire.

‘I wish I wasn’t his bloody childe!’ he yelled. And then put his hands over his ears because the echo was booming around painfully. ‘Wish I wasn’t,’ he muttered.

* * *

In Arashmaha a blue skinned demon sped along with cries of ‘Let me through, urgent, urgent, let me through.’ Gasping for breath he stopped in front of D’Hoffryn. ‘Grave news! Tracyka is missing!’ He thrust out what he was carrying. D’Hoffryn withdrew slightly as if an offensive odour clung to it. With disapproval he took in the large red lettering:

Internal Memo, **URGENT** , For Immediate Action

‘Nonsense, Cheruma. As a vice-sub-assistant executive you should know that such a thing is impossible, thanks to the internal review procedures fully implemented.’

Cheruma waved his arms about. ‘No, no, Vice Executive President D’Hoffryn! It really is true. She has not reported in, though it is well past her scheduled contact time. And the Scrying Department can find no trace of her after she was seen leaving a public bar with a blond haired man,’ he read quickly from his notes, ‘wearing “what appeared to be a raincoat, possibly plastic or some species of cheap imitation leather.” I know that their reports are notoriously vague, but still… her astral signature has now vanished. They believe she could well be dead!’

D’Hoffryn frowned. ‘You involved another department?’

‘I, er, well yes, you see… the urgency.’ He clutched the manila memo folder closer to his chest. ‘The fact is, sir, that the Implementation Section say they have already carried out a full reality alteration operation, in response to a request that was made _after_ Tracy went missing.’

D’Hoffryn for the first time shifted uneasily in his padded executive chair. ‘A wish? How is that possible?’

‘Well, sir, a recent report from Research and Development,’ they both exchanged a glance as if little more needed to be said, ‘does suggest that the power centre “will continue to function regardless of the actual presence or otherwise of the operative, providing sufficient proximity of said device to a suitable subject is maintained.” So that all that is required for the full procedure to be initiated is that the subject fulfil the requirements stated in protocol 13 subsection aiii; namely “betrayal by a _loved_ person or persons previously in a relationship of _intimacy_ , with the subject aforementioned in paragraph 29c.” In fact, sir, the subject does not even have to be female or, for that matter, human. A change that was introduced after the recent review, upon your own recommendation actually. I have the relevant paperwork here…’ He held out another sheet of paper, from which D’Hoffryn withdrew even further. The word _responsibility_ hung unspoken on the air between them, as menacingly as a wasp at a summer picnic.

‘This is terrible,’ Cheruma wailed. ‘Worse than that business a few years ago with the lamp.’

D’Hoffryn clicked his tongue in annoyance and rearranged the papers on his large and elegantly curved, reproduction mahogany desk. The business referred to, known simply as the _Aladdin Incident_ , had resulted in the early retirement of a great many executives and the forced re-launching of Wishes-R-Us as The World of Arashmaha Incorporated, a mere branch of Wishsoft ™, the multidimensional alternate reality conglomerate. Indeed on that occasion the missing device had only been recovered, after an alarmingly long time, by the introduction of a special promotional offer – new lamps for old – at the cost of a substantial segment of the departmental budget.

D’Hoffryn was moved to actually read a little of the paperwork, though at a distance, without touching it. ‘There are at least three formatting errors on this page, Cheruma,’ he remarked acidly.

Cheruma was reading a different piece of paper. ‘I must say Implementation seem to have done a rather shoddy job. Would they have had straw bales in 1880? And some of the social niceties…’ He sighed, as one who occasionally allowed himself to dream of a time when pride in craftsmanship had taken precedent over procedure and budgetary constraints. He pulled himself together. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, you were saying?’

‘The field operative in question is a new employee is she not?’

‘Yes sir. She is – was – the replacement for Anyanka, who you will recall we had to let go some months back. And Tracyka’s knowledge of field procedure has not always been…’

‘Are you implying that this could be due to a failure of the Training Department?’ The two demons’ eyes met speculatively before sliding away sidelong. D’Hoffryn drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Very well.’ He straightened up. ‘We will inform the Implementation Section of their unacceptable performance in the recent intra-departmental “exercise”, all relevant paperwork is therefore to be handed over to the internal review team headed by yourself. A memo to be circulated to all Sectors and Sub-sectors that the field operative Tracyka has been relocated in a sideways promotion to the Hades sub-dept as part of the normal internal restructuring and growth in the evolving WOA Inc. management structure.’

Cheruma was taking rapid notes. ‘And the power source necklace?’

D’Hoffryn riffled through a card index in front of him. ‘Sent to the repair shop for its scheduled thousand year service and re-calibration.’

Cheruma smiled. ‘Of course. I will check that the notification docket has not somehow become miss-filed.’

D’Hoffryn gestured with a pointed eyebrow to the office shredder. ‘I trust, Cheruma, that if anyone should question the altered state of affairs you will know how to respond?’

‘Naturally, sir. Simple denial that any change has in fact taken place. But what if they should query further?’

‘Issue a statement to the effect that it is their own responsibility for having failed to understand the full subtext of the initial statement dated to the preceding years retrospectively. Namely,’ he peered at the last sheet of paper before it disappeared into the shredder, ‘the actual definition of the word “Sire” which from now on should be taken to include the hitherto unmentioned concept “grandsire”. That is all the explanation they should require. By the way, Cheruma, what exactly was the nature of this wish the Implementation Section have just used for their “training exercise”?’

Cheruma shrugged ‘Oh, nothing very important, sir.’

* * *

In the pipe Spike was still fuming quietly to himself. Bloody poof. Bloody cold. Bloody no fags. Bloody no car. Bloody no money. And bloody well not going to put up with any more nonsense from that bloody poncy ‘I never give a moments thought to what I eat’ en-souled Angel. It wasn’t as if he was Angel’s childe or anything. Spike was a hundred and twenty-six years old – he frowned and did a quick calculation on his fingers, then shrugged and returned to his line of thought – he was a hundred and something years old, and it was high time he started living for himself. So, as of tomorrow, he was going back to Sunnydale. By bus if necessary. He’d kill the Slayer. Or possibly shag her; whichever seemed appropriate at the time. Then go find Dru, tell her that _she_ was still his _sire_ whether she liked it or not; and she could damn well spend eternity with him and enjoy it. And never see Angel again.

Right.

He took the green gem with its square brass setting back out of his pocket and stared at it once more. It looked quite old, should be worth a bob or two. He wondered vaguely who the girl had been. She had certainly tasted a bit odd, it was just possible she had had a drop of demon in her. He shrugged. Lots of different demons around, half of them with some bizarre function or other. Well hers had turned out to be stopping his stomach from growling for the night, and he couldn’t think of any higher cause than that.

Perhaps he would write a poem about it.

**Author's Note:**

> The World of Arashmaha™ was the place that employed Anyanka when she was still a vengeance demon; her boss being the blue chap called D’Hoffryn. Keen types will recall that she fulfilled wishes for the lovelorn with the aid of a necklace with a green stone in it. Since she had been employed for over a thousand years, the WOA must be a very old organisation; and like all old organisations the people involved are bound to be more interested in bureaucracy, infighting, and not accepting blame than actually doing the job properly.


End file.
